


Like When Two Cars Collide

by Barkour



Category: Motorcity
Genre: Awkward Sexual Situations, Car Sex, Established Relationship, Future Fic, M/M, Trans Male Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-29
Updated: 2012-07-29
Packaged: 2017-11-11 00:34:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/472468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Barkour/pseuds/Barkour
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Going to town (read: doing the sex) in Mutt might not have been one of Mike's brighter ideas.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Like When Two Cars Collide

**Author's Note:**

> Please note that I’m on board with the headcanon that Chuck is a trans dude, so that’s in effect here. I’ve tried to be neither fetishistic nor inaccurate; if, however, I have failed, please do not hesitate to let me know.
> 
> The title is taken from the song "Someone Else's Ride" by Ghosthustler.

Mutt hadn’t been designed for much other than her stated purpose: going fast and hitting hard. No backseat, no joiner for the driver’s and passenger’s seats. If it weren’t for Chuck, Mike wasn’t all that sure she’d have a passenger’s seat.

The gear shift jammed into his side and Mike peeled back from the kiss, muttering, “Wait, wait,” even as he pushed Chuck down.

“Ow!” Chuck recoiled off the door, clutching at his head. “That was my _skull_ , Mikey, that protects my _brain_ , that I _need_ , it’s all I _got_ —”

Mike swooped down on him, taking care to avoid the gear shift. “I know,” he said, smattering kisses on Chuck’s face in the dark, “hey, I know. I’m sorry. How bad does it hurt? Do you want to stop?” He tried licking Chuck’s mouth but caught his nose instead, too little light penetrating Mutt’s tinted windows to give him enough to work off.

“No, it’s—I’m fine, it’s okay, I just didn’t really want to hit my head on the door, that’s all.” Chuck batted Mike’s hands away and stuck his own hand out, palm to Mike’s chin. “Stop licking my eyes! Seriously, dude, that’s—that’s so gross; stop.” He shoved Mike off.

Mike settled back into the driver’s seat and eyed Chuck through the shadows. Chuck rubbed his sleeves over his face, rubbing and muttering. In his chest, Mike’s heart was still racing, pounding like it never seemed to pound when he was gunning Mutt. Cool it, Chilton, Mike thought. Park it. He punched the driver’s light, then the passenger’s light, too. One problem solved.

Chuck’s fingers, long and skinny and knobby, carded through his blond shag. His chest rose and fell, breathing accelerated, and the strain of his shirt over even Chuck’s scrawny chest was intense. Mike’s palms itched. Thighs, too. He made to grab the steering wheel, thought better of it, and started stripping out of his jacket.

“What are you doing!”

“I need to cool down,” Mike said. The synthesized leather stuck to his arms and he pushed off the seat, throwing his arms back and his chest out. Chuck squeaked and tossed his hands up to his face, fingers split in a bold W so he could peer out.

“What are _you_ doing?” Mike asked.

“Nothing,” Chuck said immediately. His fingers closed together so his hands were shutters. “I’m not doing anything. I’m just, you know, I’m sitting in my seat, right here, like I always do, and I’m definitely not checking you out. Why would I check you out? I mean, except for the—you know, that—”

Mike scrubbed at his face. “It’s okay, Chuck. I know what you mean.”

Weakly, Chuck said, “Well, at least one of us does?” and swallowed, his lean throat working so the muscles going all down it tensed and slid.

Mike dropped his head to the steering wheel. “This isn’t going to work.” His jacket pooled in his lap. Still, he felt as if his skin crawled, running over with something dry and hot.

“That’s not true,” said Chuck after a moment. “We just need to—rethink the situation, come at it from another angle—maybe if the seats reclined—” He fumbled around the passenger seat, digging for a lever, a handle, something that wasn’t there.

“They don’t recline,” Mike said, resigned. He was watching Chuck’s elbows, those joints sticking out like they just wanted to bury themselves in Mike’s ribs. The urge to just reach out and grab one of them and haul Chuck into his lap was—

“Oh, hey!” said Mike. “I have an idea.”

Chuck, leaning up to check the back of his seat, glanced over at Mike. Mike was only a little stung by the suspicion writ large across Chuck’s freckled, angled face.

“I’m not just saying this because I want to make out with you,” said Mike.

“But you do want to make out with me,” said Chuck.

Mike looked at Chuck: his flat butt, his narrow back, the way his bones stuck out all over and his nose did, too.

“Yeah,” said Mike, “I’d say that’s an affirmative on the making out front.”

Chuck sighed. “All right. Just rechecking. Like, if you had any second thoughts, like you decided you didn’t really want to do this, with me, which I’d understand entirely!”

“What, are you kidding me?”

Mike gave in. He grabbed Chuck’s elbow and dragged him over, ignoring how Chuck shrieked as he ducked to keep from cracking his head on the ceiling.

“Dude,” said Mike, pulling Chuck bodily into his lap, “Chuckles, how could I not want to make out with you? You’ve only got my back every day. You’re only the bravest guy I know. You’re only my best bromigo.”

“When you put it like that,” said Chuck, reddening.

“If you’re tongue-tied,” said Mike, waggling his eyebrows, “I got a cure for that.”

Chuck was warm and heavy in Mike’s lap; what Chuck lacked in muscle, he made up for in sheer height, and his butt, so very bony, dug painfully into Mike’s thighs. Gamely, Mike pushed all these considerations aside in favor of slanting his mouth over Chuck’s. Gratifying, how Chuck dropped his hands to Mike’s shoulders right away and pushed down to meet him, Chuck’s mouth spilling open.

Mike dug his fingers into the curve of Chuck’s hip and hitched him higher. His other hand slid lazily up the endless length of Chuck’s spine, dragging at his shirt so it, too, slid upwards, exposing smooth skin and, beneath Mike’s thumb, the rough edge of his binder. Mike glanced to the windshield, thinking to sneak a peek at that freckled back, but Chuck’s shoulder, bending, filled the world; Chuck’s back curled as he, too, bent to fill Mike.

The thing about Chuck was he just needed some encouragement. That was all. Chuck cradled Mike’s head and pressed down to him, lips parted, tongue seeking out Mike. His mouth, Chuck’s mouth, was hot and wet; he tasted overwhelmingly of nachos and tomato sauce. Mike pulled eagerly at Chuck’s hips, his lips, his tongue.

“Ow! That’th my tongue!”

“Sorry,” said Mike, trying to kiss the tip of Chuck’s tongue, “you okay? Buddy?” He stroked Chuck’s back, high between his shoulders.

Chuck dotted the back of his right hand to his tongue and peered at it. “Mikey, I’m bleeding? I think! I’m bleeding!”

“Wait, let me see—”

Mike fumbled for Chuck’s hand and straightened, and Chuck, thrown slightly off, landed hard on the steering wheel. His head cracked against the windshield.

“Chuckles!”

Mike clung to Chuck’s right hand, rubbing his thumb over the back of his knuckles as Chuck curled his left arm tightly about his head. Rising carefully from the seat, his knees tightening as he balanced his weight in his tensed thighs, Mike pushed up to look for Chuck’s eyes, hidden first behind his bangs and then behind his arm.

“Okay,” Chuck said, muffled. “You’re right. This was a bad idea.”

“It was my idea in the first place,” Mike offered. He looked down to his hand, still cupping Chuck’s, and studied Chuck’s wrist, the back of his hand, pale and dotted with freckles, same as the rest of him. Mike brightened.

“Hey! Chuck! Good news—you aren’t bleeding. See?”

That got Chuck out, sort of. His arm rose; his thumb swept his bangs aside; he peered down with one eye at his hand, held up to him by Mike.

“Oh,” said Chuck. He wriggled his fingers, testing. “I knew that.”

Mike grinned up at him and tugged experimentally at Chuck’s hand, thumb caressing the delicate joint at the outside of his hand where it met with his wrist. Chuck tugged back and Mike, down with this compromise, came with, bunching his calves to hoist himself up to Chuck. Even slouched as he was to fit Mutt’s sloping roof, even resting on Mike’s knees with his back against the steering wheel, Chuck towered, loose-limbed and without grace.

Maybe grace would come later. Mike didn’t mind. Now was fine. Yeah, when he surged up, he whacked his elbow on the door. True, when Chuck bent to meet him, their noses mashed. Sure, Mike’s kiss glanced down Chuck’s jaw. But Mike liked that, how clumsily they fit together. Chuck’s fingers scrabbling down Mike’s arms, nails catching in the skin. Mike’s teeth catching on Chuck’s teeth, that jarring pain in Mike’s gums at that little smack. The lingering taste of cheese in Chuck’s mouth, and the grinding of the bones in his gawky butt on Mike’s thighs so that his knees hurt with it and his calves began to numb.

Chuck skated his fingers down Mike’s back; his fingertips snagged on Mike’s belt loops. Half-hard with the smell of leather, the pressure of Chuck’s bony butt in his lap, and the memory of Chuck’s fingernails scratching his nape, Mike groaned and buried his face in Chuck’s throat. Chuck made a little high-pitched laughing sound and shoved Mike away.

“Dude! I’m ticklish there! Come on!” Chuck rubbed at his neck, fingers of his left hand still hooked around Mike’s hip, thumb crooked along the inside of his thigh.

Leaning back in his seat, Mike wriggled; the weight of his cock in his jeans made him wince. It would’ve been easier if he could have stretched, but in Mutt, with Chuck pressed down on his legs and Chuck’s legs rising around him—

Chuck was muttering, “Okay. Okay, I can do this,” and Mike lifted his head to ask what—and Chuck dropped his hand from his ticklish neck to Mike’s aching, _aching_ groin. Mike jumped—he couldn’t help it—Chuck’s palm was pressing down, down, his fingers spreading to cradle the swollen suggestion of Mike’s thickening dick.

“Wow,” Mike breathed out, “okay, yeah, you can do that. You can definitely do that.” He flashed Chuck a thumbs up.

His fingers slipping haltingly south, Chuck snorted a giggle through his thick nose and bent down to rest his forehead on Mike’s forehead. So close, bangs flattening between them—Chuck’s bangs, Mike’s bangs—Chuck’s eyes were hidden, known more for the distant, eerie implication of his eyelids moving in the way his hair stirred, there. Mike didn’t need to see Chuck’s eyes. He knew Chuck, knew him for the sharp staccato of his persisting laugh, the jerky way Chuck’s hand moved over Mike’s erection, how Chuck shifted restlessly, elbows and knees going every which way. Mike nuzzled Chuck’s cheek, his jaw, kissed both more wetly, perhaps, than was recommended but he didn’t care. It made Chuck laugh harder.

“Dude! Are you drooling?” Chuck was fumbling for the button clasp to Mike’s jeans and failing.

“’Cause you taste so good, Chuckles,” Mike said, and Chuck laughed harder, loud and breathless all up in his sinuses. He sounded like a deflating balloon. Mike felt like he was falling down a very long chute and he didn’t know if he’d ever hit bottom and he wanted to do it again, right then, jump off that ledge with Chuck sniggering beside him.

“I want to kiss you again,” Mike said as Chuck’s head bobbled, their noses bumping. “Is that chill with you? If I kiss you again? Because I’d like to do that, if you’re cool with it.”

“Um,” said Chuck, his voice cracking, “well, I mean, my hand’s kind of on your dick right now, so if you really wanted to…”

“I just don’t want to take this too fast for you,” said Mike, even as he pushed up into Chuck’s way long fingers. “The eject seat’s all the way over there.”

Chuck’s shoulders hunched; at Mike’s crotch, his fingertips fought with the zipper. The soft, metallic rasp as Chuck won made Mike draw a hard breath in and reach out for something—something cool and steady to hold onto for a moment, just a moment. He grabbed the gear shift. His hand clenched around the knob.

“I’m okay,” Chuck said. “It’s not like we’re—rappelling into an uncharted cave system or anything, anything scary like that.”

“Just making out,” said Mike. “Nothing scary about that at all.”

“Nope,” Chuck agreed, and then he stuck his hand down Mike’s pants.

Mike jerked; his hips bucked once, his cock just—right there, in Chuck’s hand, the typing calluses on Chuck’s fingertips _catching_. The gear shift moved, yanked from first to second. Good thing Mutt was sleeping. Mike thought: But if they did this while Mutt was in cruise control— He pushed up again.

“Nothing scary at all,” said Chuck, pitched up.

“We don’t have to do this,” Mike said. His cock burned; he wanted Chuck to touch him, touch him more, fingers tightening around him, thumb on his cock head, coaxing him up. He held his hips still. “If it’s too much for you—”

“I can do this,” Chuck said.

“You can,” Mike said immediately, and not just because, okay, yes, he wanted—Chuck there, stroking him and pulling at him and getting him all high up, like a bungee cord snapping and whipping Mike back up into the sky—but because Chuck could do it; Chuck could do anything; Chuck was fine. “You can totally do it. Do you want to do it?”

The thing about Chuck was he always better at doing things than talking about things. So what he said was, “Uh—yeah. I think I can. I mean, I do. I do want to,” and what he did was he bent and kissed Mike, mouth just to the side, their teeth mashing together through their lips. His fingers tightened around Mike’s dick, wringing a small half-gasp out Mike’s mouth and into Chuck’s—nails scratching a little—Mike bucked once and Chuck did it again, digging his thumb down to—  
  


“Not so hard!” Mike grabbed onto Chuck’s shoulder and held him off.

“Sorry—” Chuck was red-faced, his mouth drawn up into an exaggerated U, flipped over. His fingers rubbed down Mike’s cock, a soothing gesture that just made Mike’s heart lock up and head into a sudden skid. “I didn’t mean to—I thought you liked it, so—”

“No,” Mike said, his heart pounding, his dick throbbing, Chuck’s hand still so warm there, fingertips tracing tiny circles. “No. It’s cool. We’re cool. Just not so hard.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah,” Mike gasped. “Yeah. I’m sure.”

Chuck bent to kiss him again. The sloppy slide of Chuck’s tongue in his mouth, the grinding of Chuck’s palm over his cock, his own sticky pre-come wetting Chuck’s wrist: Mike had heated and indistinct thoughts of pushing Chuck up against—something—and pushing against Chuck and— He pulled Chuck closer. Slung his arm around Chuck’s shoulders and dipped his fingers down the back of Chuck’s shirt, tracing the skin bared above his binder. Rocked up into that warm hand, that warmer embrace. A great greediness had spilled open in Mike, a terrible selfishness. He wanted to wrap himself around Chuck in return and kiss all down that bony back.

Mike’s hand circled Chuck’s thigh; he pulled, gently, enough to drag Chuck just that inch nearer. As he did so, Mike slipped his knee up— Chuck jerked out of the kiss. His mouth was red, his lips slicked and puffed where Mike’s teeth had caught on the corner. He was breathing hard, flushed in the face so his freckles were dark ghosts. The hand on Mike’s dick tightened again and Mike rocked into that curve, took it hard and quick the way his gut told him to take it. His knee pushed against Chuck’s crotch again and Chuck, that flush bleeding into his throat, reached down and caught Mike’s knee.

“Do you not—” Mike licked his lips. His throat was dry, his tongue thick with thirst. He tried again: “Do you want me to stop?”

“ _No_ ,” Chuck said, “I don’t want you to stop.” He hesitated. “Do you want me to stop?”

“No.”

They looked at each other, so little space between them. Chuck shifted, making to bring his leg up then dropping it again. He grimaced.

“This isn’t working out as well as I’d hoped,” Mike said at last.

Chuck snorted again. He rubbed the back of his arm over his nose, and when he looked at Mike, his bangs flopped, just so, enough for Mike to see how his eyes were crinkling with laughter.

“I don’t know,” Chuck said. “All in all? I think this is one of my better memories from inside Mutt.”

“You haven’t even screamed once,” Mike said encouragingly, and Chuck coughed, hard.

“But—” Mike leaned against Chuck. “You’re doing all the work here, buddy.”

Chuck rolled his lips in; his teeth flashed. “I want to.”

All that heat in Chuck’s face. Mike felt that same warmth unspooling in his chest.

“I want to, too,” Mike said. “Do you want me to?”

Chuck leaned into him. His lips were so very, very close to Mike’s cheek, close enough the minute parting of his lips stirred Mike.

“Yeah.”

“Then can I—” Mike’s fingers brushed the inside of Chuck’s thigh.

Chuck swallowed; his throat rolled with it. A shadow licked at Chuck’s jaw.

“Yeah,” said Chuck.

Mike touched his thumb to the zipper; his nail glossed over the soft bulge of Chuck’s packer. Again, he asked: “Do you want me to?”

And Chuck blurted, “Yes, _yes_ , Mikey, yes, there, so will you please just touch me already?” and he dug his nails into Mike’s jeans and pressed into the offering of Mike’s spread fingers.

Mike laughed and dug for the button clasp. Chuck was better with his fingers than Mike; Chuck was _amazing_ with his fingers, fact, but Mike managed pretty good with the button and then the zipper, even with Chuck squeezing and tugging on Mike’s cock, wrenching little moments of static behind Mike’s eyes, when the act of pulling down a zipper evaded Mike and all he could think was how great Chuck smelled, how good his hand felt— Mike dropped his head to Chuck’s shoulder and fought for focus.

“Whoa,” Chuck said, “careful—dude, that’s my _dick_ —”

“Hey, Chuckles,” said Mike, smiling at him, “it’s me. I’m not going to throw it.”

Chuck worried at his lip. “I know. Just—be careful with it.”

Mike grinned and, pulling it free, said, “Here. Seat of honor,” and he reached across the car to set the packer in the passenger seat.

Mollified, Chuck said, “Thanks,” and he kissed Mike again, a fleeting, smacking kiss that made Mike reach up and kiss Chuck right back, catching him with his tongue. Chuck’s knees tensed; his back bent, sliding. The hand on Mike began moving again, and Mike breathed out into Chuck’s mouth.

Chuck was slicked at his crotch, the tangle of dark blond hair there wet with it. Mike stroked a finger over Chuck’s clit; he knew Chuck wasn’t much interested in anything penetrative—actively hated it and Mike got that—but teasing his clit, that was okay. That was cool. Chuck’s breathing thinned, like Mike had taken a sharp corner far too fast and something had shaken loose in Chuck’s chest; but instead of sucking in air to scream, now Chuck only pushed his tightened hand down Mike’s cock and exhaled hotly in his ear.

Mike’s head fell back. His own breath came quickly now. He ran his thumb down Chuck then up again, pinching at that nub just as Chuck’s fingers circled Mike. The back of Mike’s shirt had rucked up somewhere in all that shifting; now the leather of the seat stuck to his sweating back. His calves numbed, butt too. Mike licked at Chuck’s jaw, bit at the soft corner, sucked at the sweat, and in his lap, Chuck shuddered all over, a convulsive trembling that ran down to Mike’s hand.

The hand Chuck had free settled at the back of Mike’s head; his fingers wound through Mike’s hair, pulled. A yanking pain sizzled down Mike’s scalp and he bit at Chuck again, unable to help the bucking of his hips when Chuck pulled again. Those rough calluses scraped down Mike’s cock and then engulfed him.

When he came, messily, with as little grace as anything else they’d managed, Mike nipped desperately at Chuck’s throat, his jaw, the lobe of his ear. Chuck said, “Mike—” in a sharp voice that went sharper when Mike dove after his clavicle. Chuck crashed back against the steering wheel and arched, hissing.

“Sorry,” Mike said, “sorry—” and licked at Chuck’s ear, at his spotted cheek, the wrinkling corner of his eye. His fingernails grabbed at Chuck’s clit, pulling at him, dragging as Chuck had dragged at him, and Mike scraped his teeth over Chuck’s cheek, his ear, the corner of his eye, and Chuck complained, “Mikey—” and Mike, again, said, “Sorry,” even as his mouth yawned wide over Chuck’s eyebrow, hair sticking to Mike’s tongue, and Chuck said, “Don’t apologize, you don’t have to—”

He broke off. In the end, Chuck didn’t scream at all. His hands were at Mike’s shoulders; his arms rose; his fingers spasmed and bit deep; he bent and buried his face in Mike’s throat and moaned so that all the hairs on the back of Mike’s neck rose and Mike’s gut began to burn again, and Mike closed his eyes against the wild, wild racing of his heart.

A moment passed, then another. Chuck was pooled warm in Mike’s lap, his legs rising endlessly to either side of Mike. One foot had braced on the driver’s door. Chuck shifted and then stopped. His shoulder hitched.

“I can’t feel my legs,” Chuck mumbled into Mike’s hair.

Mike tried to stretch one of his own legs out and winced at the needles that lanced up his knee. “Neither can I.” Making out in Mutt really hadn’t been one of his brighter ideas. He made to lift his arm but gave up. Chuck was too warm, too near.

Chuck’s arms tightened around Mike’s shoulders; he’d caught the aborted movement. His fingers curled in Mike’s shirt.

“Let’s not. Go,” he said. “Could we stay like this for a little bit?”

“Yeah,” said Mike, “if you want to.”

“I do,” said Chuck.

“Me, too,” said Mike.


End file.
